Sacred Ground
by dreamingfate
Summary: Tatsumi's underlying masochistic tendancies get some airing. WARNING: Non-con, abuse


They weren't going to kill him. Tatsumi knew it, but to imagine they were made everything so much better. Thinking that each sensation might be his last made them crisper, cleaner, made him pray each jolt and shock of pain would stretch out forever as they slammed fists and feet and knees into his quivering body.

The fabric ripped open across his back; the sudden chill of the cold air in the abandoned warehouse kissing his skin, leaving it humming in anticipation for the brief moment it was left untouched. One of the men stabbed him casually in the side, just to see what would happen, driving the knife in up to the hilt as he hissed and cried out, then withdrawing leisurely as though simply checking if a fine cut of meat was cooked all the way through. They watched, fascinated, horrified, as his wound sealed, leaving no trace except the blood left on the knife and his skin.

Then they'd beaten him again, over and over, gathered around him stamping and punching and kicking him while he was held, defenseless, the impacts tearing and bruising his flesh to the point he thought his body might start to break apart. He was hoisted up by his hair, held rough as yet another fist slammed into his jaw, filling his mouth with the thick, bitter taste of metal and sending screams of white agony shooting up into his temples. The blood was in his eyes, his ears, oozing from the gashes in his scalp, matting his hair, dripping steadily from his chin onto his heaving chest.

He smiled as they noticed, as they realised what all their attentions were doing to him. Then came a hard kick to his groin accompanied by mutters of disgust and mockery as his body tried in vain to double over and protect itself. He'd been discovered.

Then a knife to his throat, edge sharp and threatening, lifting his head. He tried to wriggle free but it was impossible. The knife bit stinging into his neck, and he stopped struggling. The man holding it told him he was pretty and pulled out his own hard cock, not even waiting for Tatsumi to consider opening his mouth before yanking his head back and forcing it between his lips. It lay huge on his tongue. He was ordered to suck it and did so, struggling for breath, feeling the rampant hunger build at the back of his throat at being so close to the man's blood, but held himself in check. If he bit down they might really kill him, even though they were only human.

Hands behind him, busy hands, holding his hips up and rubbing against him, over him. His body still sang with pain, sticky with his own blood. Someone's groin pushed roughly up against him, erect and thrusting at him, still fully-clothed but practising, mocking him, giving him a taste of what might be to come. Hands in his hair as someone else took over and pressed the knife to him, hips pushing the huge cock into his mouth and right to the back of his throat, almost choking him, filling his mouth with a different taste. They tore his clothes again, shoving his thighs apart from behind, and suddenly there were quick, impatient fingers slipping over his asshole, wet with spit, working their way inside him, pushing uncomfortably deep into him, spreading him painfully.

The knife at his throat cut into him just for fun, tearing his focus away, forcing a moan from his lips as the one fucking his face finally emptied, groaning, into him, withdrawing and leaving him coughing, drooling blood and come.

He was violated again, the sore, busy fingers leaving him replaced by the lancing, raw, stabbing agony of someone thrusting into him, filling him in in a way that felt impossible. They each took a turn with him, hot and lurid and panting up against him, plastered sweating to his body as they used him and bit him and fucked him until he felt like he was torn in two. They laughed at him the times he came, expecting him to be ashamed of his body's reaction to their intrusion.

Eventually they'd satisfied themselves and left him shaking, broken and torn apart on the cold warehouse floor, covered in his bodily fluids and theirs, his body shuddering from the pain throbbing through him with every sickly wheezing, rasping breath. In the end they'd shot him three times in the chest and left him to die.

But he wasn't going to die. He was a jinrou, after all not a weak, pitiable human. Perhaps he should have felt a little loss of pride at being fucked by livestock, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

As he lay there, repairing, the discomfort draining away more and more with each passing second, he smiled to himself. He'd thought the day was going to be a boring one, but couldn't have been more wrong. His eyes shone in the dark. If you were a masochist, days like today were very good days indeed.


End file.
